


A Reverse Back To The Future Sorta Thing

by demonologistindenim



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 10 Minute Writing Prompt, Gen, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:34:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28669290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonologistindenim/pseuds/demonologistindenim
Summary: An unexpected visitor from 1700's Scotland puts Sam and Dean into the uncomfortable position of having to explain to Crowley - or at least to the man he used to be - how he became the King of Hell. One-shot canon-divergent ficlet. Complete.
Kudos: 3





	A Reverse Back To The Future Sorta Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the [Writing Prompt:](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/writing-prompt-s/638951842405040128) After a demon king successfully takes over the world, he soon becomes bored and erases his memories and changes his appearance. 16 years later a young warrior sets off to take back the kingdom, unaware that he’s the one who took it in the first place. YES, this prompt inspired two SEPARATE ficlets.

“I don’t know, Sammy.” Dean muttered, staring back into the bunker library and the young man sitting at the table. “I don’t feel right about this.”

“Yeah, I get that. But we don’t have a choice, Dean.” Sam shook his head and sighed. He was being surprisingly supportive, given the situation, which Dean appreciated but knew better than to actually bring up. “I mean, think about it. Technically, he’s already dead, he just doesn’t _remember_ that he’s dead. And, you know. A demon.”

Not just any demon, either. The King of Hell.

And the young man sitting in the library while the Winchesters had this little aside was the man he had been, before he’d died and gone to Hell. Some 300 years ago.

Fergus MacLeod wasn’t anything like Dean had been expecting. If asked to describe him, Dean would have googled a photo of a scruffy Andrew Scott. There was just enough about the features to remind him of Crowley’s current meatsuit. He was quick, and cautious, and resourceful. In only a few minutes, Fergus had adjusted to the puzzling situation he’d found himself in, halfway across the world in what had been the British colonies and in the year 2017, with two very surprised hunters (of the witch-hunting variety, yes, but not the type Fergus was familiar with), due some spell that – Dean and Sam both assumed – Rowena had likely cast and which had taken effect while Crowley was visiting the bunker.

Fergus had accepted the glass of whiskey Dean had offered him with only mild interest, and proceeded to warily, if curiously, watch Sam research the spell on his laptop.

“And yer going t’ find t’ answer to our little conundrum,” he’d asked, in a thick Scottish brogue that Dean struggled to understand, “by tapping yer fingers on tha’ there?”

“That’s right,” Sam and replied without looking up.

“And it’s a library a all t’ knowledge in t’ world? Right a’ yer fingertips?”

It was the look on Fergus’ face that fully convinced Dean that – yes – the demon he knew had once been this man. Because in Fergus’ eyes shown a thousand calculations and considered possibilities. The difference was that there was no malice to it. The man was sharp and clever, but he was neither sly nor devious. And when he’d taken a sip of the whiskey, he’d offered Dean a smile that lacked anything other than real pleasure.

“Would’na mind a dram or two a tha’ to bring home with me.”

What they were seeing, Dean realized, was whoever Fergus MacLeod had been before life, and the times he lived in, dragged him through the mud. Dean had, surreptitiously, done a bit of reading on the history of Scotland during the late 17th and early 18th century. He knew about the Scottish rebellions, the baseless witch hunts, the imprisonment and murder of countless Scots by the British, and the dissolution of the centuries-old highland way of life during that time. Add to that being an outcast, being the abandoned son of a witch, and life could not have been easy for Crowley. For Fergus. What Dean was seeing was who that man had been before all of the worst happened. Before he’d become a miserable failure at his trade, a drunk, an abusive father, and eventually damned his own soul to Hell.

And as much as they had to be careful not to Back To The Future this whole thing, and accidently send Fergus home with knowledge that might change his fate – if a 300-year-old version of Crowley suddenly physically replacing him in the here and how could even be _called_ time travel – Dean could feel it all sitting sour in his stomach.

“Look, I get it,” Dean muttered to Sam, as they peered from the map room into the library. Their unexpected guest had gotten up and was perusing the books and various weapons on the shelves. “I know he’s gotta make the deal and go to Hell, so Crowley can be there to help us stop the apocalypse, and the Leviathans, and fix the Mark and then Amara and Lucifer and…” Dean trailed off as he realized just how much they’d come to rely on, and maybe even trust, the demon.

“And there is absolutely _no way_ ,” he continued, “that I wanna tell _that guy_ in there that’s he’s gonna damn himself and be such a massive dick that he becomes the King of the Black-eyed Bastards. But, also – ” Dean struggled to find the words, before simply deciding on, “Come on, Sam! How can we _do this_ to him?!”

“Dean,” Sam was doing puppy-dog eyes, and it was hard to look away. “You know that’s not Crowley in there, right? I mean, yes, they’re the same person, like there’s still a part of you that’s you from twenty years ago, who ‘accidently’ always got themselves the McDonald’s Happy Meal with the girl toy inside – ”

“Dude, I swear, it was a mista – ”

“But we’re not talking twenty years here. We’re talking centuries, on earth _and_ in Hell. Life and time and – well – _Hell_ change a person. And we need Crowley on the throne more than Fergus deserves a chance at a better life. Even if we didn’t send him back, even if he stayed and we figured out a way to tell him he’s a damned soul and the King of Hell, and – yeah, okay, I’ll say it: working on the sly as one of the good guys – even working together, we’d never be enough to keep demonkind in line. We don’t need Fergus MacLeod.” Sam stated in a stern tone. “We _need_ Crowley.”

Knowing his brother was right didn’t make it any easy. And, Dean admitted to himself, it wasn’t just that he wanted to spare Fergus from a life of misery that would eventually ground him down into a miserable wretch, miserable enough to sell his soul in a rash crossroads deal. It wasn’t even because this somehow felt like a betrayal of Crowley, though Dean had the very distinct feeling that Crowley would be extremely irate at the Winchesters for even _considering_ messing with his life in this way and wounded that Dean might even remotely prefer his earlier self to Crowley. Not that Dean did. Not entirely. It wasn’t even that they were talking about a soul, any soul, that they could save but were willing to damn for the benefit of the world and themselves.

It was that a very small part of Dean wanted to get to know the man he had occasionally seen lingering in the corner of the demon’s eyes, if a less wearied and embittered version of him. And Sam was right, Fergus wasn’t Crowley. But he was a part of him. A part that Dean could allow himself to be friends with, and not feel guilty about that friendship.

It wasn’t Fergus that Dean wanted to hold on to, he admitted to himself. It was the man who had sat next to him in that bar two years ago, and asked him what it meant to be family. It was that human, vulnerable side of Crowley that the demon so rarely allowed himself to be, even with Dean, that Dean wanted to get to know better. Somehow, Dean got the feeling like the two of them might have a lot more in common than Dean often liked to admit.

And maybe it was too late to save Fergus. But it wasn’t too late for Crowley.

Dean forced out a sigh, shook his head. Well, at least he’d realized it now before it was all too late. Better get back to researching that spell, figuring out how to return Fergus MacLeod to his own time and his fate, so that they could get a particular demon and king and friend back.

Just as Dean was about to relent to Sam and tell his brother okay fine, knock off the puppy-dog eyes, he realized a slightly concerned-looking Fergus was standing on the steps leading down into the map room.

“I’m t’ king a what now?” And then, with an expression that had King of Hell written all of it, “An’ what kind a name is _Crowley_?”

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments always greatly appreciated! Link to [original Tumblr post here](https://demonologist-in-denim.tumblr.com/post/639887257238634496/writing-prompt-s-after-a-demon-king-successfully) in case anyone would be kind enough to reblog. Thanks for reading!


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